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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23666251">ghost in the sheets</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/renegadepaladin/pseuds/renegadepaladin'>renegadepaladin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Arcana (Visual Novel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(as retold by Lucio), Ableist Language, Angst, Apprentice/Asra (mentioned), Apprentice/Julian Devorak (mentioned), Chronic Illness, F/M, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Polyamorous Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:21:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23666251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/renegadepaladin/pseuds/renegadepaladin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Another cough wrecks him and her hand moves to his forehead, the other one guiding him back to his pillow. Miraculously, he lets her, bravado deflating as quick as it had appeared. It’s a wonder he had managed to find even that bit of strength: He’s burning up beneath her hand, wasting away right in front of her eyes. A surge of pity runs through her. He is their despotic ruler but he is also her patient. </p><p>---</p><p>Magician turned nurse Mykhaila takes care of the Count during his illness.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Apprentice/Lucio (The Arcana)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ghost in the sheets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello, this oneshot is essentially a series of snapshots and serves as a prequel to a story I am currently writing. Focuses on Lucio/Mykhaila (my apprentice), though Asra/Mykhaila and Julian/Mykhaila are implied/mentioned.   English is not my first language so my punctuation might be a bit wonky.</p><p>If you enjoy, please don't hesitate to leave a comment or follow me on twitter @rnegadepaladin to chat about arcana :)</p><p>Please note that there is the use of an ableist slur, as Lucio recalls an encounter he had with someone after losing his arm! Also since the entirety of this story is essentialy Lucio deteriorating due to his illness please don't read if this content might be triggering for you.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is not much left of the Count she knows. </p><p>Of course she has seen him before. At the Masquerade, surrounded by nobles. One time at the Coliseum, observing the Scrouge in battle. It is unavoidable to spend even a few days in Vesuvia without seeing a likeness of him in the form of a statue or a portrait. But all those glimpses are nothing but staging, the enactment of a role. The <em> Count </em>is an actor playing for the audience of his city. But now in front of her, lying in his own sweat, is the body of a flesh and blood man.</p><p>His head is thrown back in agony as a shiver shakes him. He is not so beautiful anymore, she muses. But even despite the plague wrecking his body, there is a certain air of haughtiness surrounding him even in his pain, as if their care is beneath him. Carefully, acutely aware of the servants bustling through the room, no doubt watching her every move, she takes a seat on the chair next to the bed.</p><p>“Milord, can you hear me?” There is no reaction from him, only a heavy breath in, another one out. She decides to continue nonetheless. “My name is Mykhaila. From now on, I am responsible for your care.”</p><p>Slowly, maddingly so, one blood-shot eye opens. The Count makes a sound but it is impossible to understand, more a croak than a word.</p><p>“Milord?” </p><p>His mouth twists into a grimace as he waves his flesh hand. His metal arm is not attached to his body, instead lying in a case at the far end of the room. He motions once more, more fiercely and she understands that he wants her to come closer.</p><p>Carefully, she gets up, bending her head towards him. </p><p>“Jules.” The Count croaks, voice broken. “Where is- Jules?”</p><p>Ah. “Ily- Doctor Devorak is concentrating all his efforts on the cure. He sent me to make sure you are in capable hands.” And how she resents him for it. If she had the choice, she’d have moved into the dungeons with him to work on a cure, would have stayed in the clinic to help the people of the city. Would have chosen anything but this. But there are no choices, for neither of them. All their efforts, all their research is dependent on the Count. And the Count, as it is, is dying.</p><p>There’s a sudden sound from him, something that could maybe be called a laugh. He takes in a deep breath as he shifts, propping himself up with his one hand. Immediately, a servant rushes to help him sit, but he shakes them off.</p><p>She is surprised by the sudden clarity with which he seizes her up, pale pupils piercing her from blood-red sclerae. “And-” Another deep breath. “Who are you? For Jules to think-” He inches closer, all of his feeble strength used in the movement. “That he can leave me with <em> you </em>.”</p><p>Mykhaila narrows her eyes. Here she is, in the place she least wants to be, at the bedside of the man who would leave the city to rot, were he not in danger of being  taken by the plague himself. And <em> he </em> has the audacity to question <em> her </em>?</p><p>“<em> I </em> -” She grits her teeth. “ <em> I </em>am his best nurse.”</p><p>He eyes her again. “No. You’re-” His lids slip shut as if the effort of glaring at her has worn him out. “You’re the magician.” </p><p>Mykhaila startles. </p><p>“Milord?” </p><p>“You’re Asra’s- you’re always with him. You own the shop in-” Another cough wrecks him and her hand moves to his forehead, the other one guiding him back to his pillow. Miraculously, he lets her, bravado deflating as quick as it had appeared. It’s a wonder he had managed to find even that bit of strength: He’s burning up beneath her hand, wasting away right in front of her eyes. A surge of pity runs through her. He is their despotic ruler, but he is also her patient. She lets power run through her fingertips, trying to offer him some cold to counter the heat spreading through him.</p><p>The effect is immediate. The Count slumps beneath her touch, a relieved moan leaving him. </p><p>Carefully, she lifts her hand from his shoulder to his jugular, two fingers on his pulse. He twitches at the touch and so she removes them again. A keening sound, like a wounded animal.</p><p>“Don’t-” One eye opens, shakily meeting her gaze. His lid falls shut again almost immediately, only a flicker of resolve visible, but another whisper leaves him. “Don’t stop.” </p><p>She blinks down at the wrecked body, so vulnerable beneath her touch. No, this is not the Count any of them know. This is a man as exposed as one can be.</p><p>“I won’t.” Slowly, she moves from her standing position to sit by his side, her hands never leaving him. “I promise, I won’t.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Mykhaila chews on her lower lip as she enters the room the next day. She is still surprised that the Count recognized her, but even more surprised to see him sitting in bed, looking actually conscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, nurse.” His gaze shifts, as if uncomfortable to see her. It’s not the greeting she would have chosen, but she guesses she could be thankful he even recognizes her, given how feverish he had been the day before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milord, I am happy to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?” After their brief conversation he had fallen into deep sleep but still, she had kept her promise, offering him as much relief as she could muster. Given his changed condition, she likes to imagine it had been worth it. </span>
</p><p><span>“Well, seeing as I have </span><em><span>the</span></em> <em><span>Red Plague</span></em><span>, not good.” He eyes her as if she has asked the most idiotic question a person can come up with. She frowns and again, he looks away. A moment passes before he mutters. “Better than yesterday, I guess.” </span></p><p>
  <span>She hums, satisfied. His state had worried her - Ilya had told her that the Count is very sick, and for once in his life, he had made a severe understatement. But at least she understands why she had been sent to be his constant caretaker. With a condition this unstable, they cannot risk leaving him alone. For as long as she is here, she will only be able to leave his side to rest herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good to hear. I’m not sure if you can remember but I’m-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Mykhaila and Jules sent you because he’s busy with Valdemar. I’m sick, not daft.” He scoffs, leaning back into the pillows he’s propped up against. Her eye twitches. It’s an evil thought, but for a moment she thinks she had preferred him too sick for glibness. What little sympathy she had accumulated is rapidly draining away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, with your attitude you must truly be feeling better.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gapes at her, visibly offended. “That’s- I’m your Count!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises an eyebrow. “Milord, I fail to see how that is relevant to the conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I- you should show me respect!” He eyes her like a child unable to comprehend why they are being chastised. It makes her wonder who he is trying to convince - her or himself?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am here to make sure your sickness doesn’t worsen, not to show respect.” Really, what had Ilya been </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking, </span>
  </em>
  <span>sending her? Had he even been thinking? It’s not the first time she wonders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You-” For a moment he only sits with his mouth hanging open, like a goat in the field. “I’ll have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>fired</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t help the sly smile escaping her at his indignation. “If you prefer your care to be of mediocre quality, you are free to do so.” Oh, how she almost longs for him to do it, to give her an excuse to go back to the clinic, to do the work she actually wants <em>to </em>do. But they all make sacrifices in these times - if hers has to be to take care of this pompous fool, then she will bear that cross without complaining. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, maybe a little complaining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eyes her with contempt. His indignation has brought a little life to his grey skin, a faint veil of colour staining his cheeks. “I deserve only the </span>
  <em>
    <span>best.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case,” and she’s sure she regrets to say it almost as much as he does to hear it, “you are stuck with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is silence as he accepts his defeat. When it’s clear that he will at least tolerate her presence, she turns to check her equipment, even though she did so the evening before. She is already sorry - sorry to be here, sorry to have to babysit a grown man - so she might as well be safe. When she returns to him a few minutes later, she hears him grumble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought nurses were supposed to be nice.” He is, for lack of a better word, pouting. It would be endearing in it’s childishness, were it not for the person doing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I apologize.” She begins taking his vitals, amused as he visibly perks up at her words. “My apprenticeship was hastened by the plague, I’m afraid we had to leave out the course on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Niceness</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bark of surprised laughter leaves him. It’s a nicer sound than she would have thought. “Oh, you think you’re a funny one, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milord appears amused at least.” She decides to humor him through the use of his title - maybe she has antagonized him enough for one day. As much as she likes to fantasize about it, it won’t do to </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>get herself fired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You try being stuck in bed for weeks and we’ll see how funny you’ll find a mean nurse tyrannizing you.” He turns up his nose and despite herself, a tiny chuckle escapes her. The Count turns to her, aghast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you just- this is what I’m talking about. This is bullying! You’re bullying me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> She can’t for the life of her tell if he’s being serious or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t appear deterred by her lack of response. Instead, he gives her a sideways glance. Even in all his sickness, maybe even because of it, his colorless eyes are enthralling. “Did Asra tell you to be so rude to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, it is she who is rendered speechless. She turns to him as if only mildly interested, determined not to show too much surprise, but the look of triumph on the Count’s face shows her efforts are in vain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asra... doesn’t know I’m taking care of you.” She says it slowly, unwilling to reveal too much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, her patient does not feel like playing along. “Why not? I thought you lived together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Involuntarily, her eyebrows shoot up. Just how does he know this? She remembers his feverish recognition of her - for him to know who she is, even in such a state...she’s unsure of the implications.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We do. But he’s...not in town.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the most diplomatic way of wording what still occasionally makes her fly into a rage. She had not understood his decision when he had announced and she still doesn’t now. But what truly is the most incomprehensible to her is how after all their time together, she could still find it in her to be surprised by it. Of course he had decided to go on one of his secret travels. Of course he had taken the easiest way out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If any of her inner turmoil is showing, then the Count decides not to mention it. Instead he leans back a bit on his pillows. “Really? Where is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And when is he coming back?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A deep breath. “I don’t know.” Defeat colours her voice, small and meek and everything she hates to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can’t you not know?” The Count eyes her dubiously. Maybe he wonders if she’s lying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because... he wouldn’t tell me.” Embarrassment burns in her ears at the truth. She swallows, turning away, unwilling to let him see that he has found a weak spot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the incredulity, there had been tears and there had been rage. But the most difficult phase had been acceptance: the realization that no matter how long they have been with each other, how many sweet nothings he whispers into her ear at night, Asra will never share all of him with her. They both do their pretending: him to have his reasons, to keep his cards close to his chest out of worry for her and her to believe them. But no amount of words can erase the truth she feels deep in her bones: that even if he loves her, he loves his secrets more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only one who understands is Ilya. And even he has barely so much as glanced at her ever since he moved into the dungeon. Even if miraculously the plague should be defeated, she wonders what they will have lost along the way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Count makes a derisive sound and she is thankful for it, for the way it snaps her back to reality. She can deal with his spite, his contempt at her pathetic brooding. It’s nothing she hasn’t thought before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that sucks.” Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a small flash of white gold hair, as if he is shaking his head. “I’ve always told everyone that Asra is an asshole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her gaze snaps to him, momentarily speechless. It had not been mocking. It had been almost compassionate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is!” The Count appears to have mistaken her shock for indignation. “That urchin has been ungrateful despite everything I have given him. Always gone when I need him, speaking in riddles, that kind of stuff. But you’re his- </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’d expect him to at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>try </span>
  </em>
  <span>not being a dick.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t help the bitter snort that escapes her, oddly touched. Out of all people, she had not expected for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be so understanding of her situation. Then again, she is only affirming his own preconception of Asra.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can be- </span>
  <em>
    <span>self-involved</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She wonders just how much of this conversation will be used against her at some point, either by the Count or by Asra and finds that she doesn’t particularly care. What should feel like a betrayal is liberating. To finally be able to have someone else share her own frustrations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Count laughs. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Now</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re being nice? There’s a plague going on and instead of doing one of his tricks to make it go away, he just leaves?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She should defend him. Should argue that he has his reasons, that he is not the selfish asshole he is being painted to be. But she can’t. Can’t find it in her to deny accusations she herself has also made.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. He just leaves.” She grits her teeth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>As he always does.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>He appears to become used to her presence. She is thankful: It makes her work much easier. While he spends a lot of their time together asleep, he will spend his occasional bouts of lucidity trying to engage her. Although surprised, she indulges him. Truthfully, she had expected to be ignored, treated like furniture. But as the days pass, she notices the absence of visitors, the servants’ pronounced silence when they enter the room. He lacks for nothing save for companionship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As part of her duty, she is to wait at his bedside even in his sleep. It is common for him to have a fit of sickness in his sleep, but the discovery that her magic can be used to at least sooth them enough for him to rest is a relief for both of them. She has taken to sitting in a chair at the end of the bed during those times, passing the time with books or by observing the gardens from his large windows. Today, it is the latest installment of her favourite serial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small cough. “Nurse, what are you reading?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She startles, looking at him from her chair. She had been so immersed that she had not noticed him waking up. Hastily, she moves to go to his side, but he only shakes his head weakly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need anything.” His voice is scratchy but soft. He appears to at least somewhat rested. “Now answer me……..please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that appears to be that infamous charm coming out. The exhaustion visible in his frame mollifies her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a-” She coughs. “It’s a novel on political intrigue. ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gazes at her with half-lidded eyes. “So why are you blushing like a virgin on her wedding day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She huffs. “I’m not- It’s ah- there-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something like a grin spreads across his tired features, a small tug at the corner of his pale mouth. It’s a glimpse at a time before the sickness had ravaged him. “So <em>that </em>kind of intrigue.”<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shifts in her seat. “It’s, ah- very tasteful actually. You see, there is this magician who arrives at the court of a despotic but charismatic Marquis. So-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-so they start sleeping with each other, yes?” His grin is decidedly more wicked now. Something stirs in her, a pleasant sensation she tries to squash immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...maybe.” Another shift as she crosses one leg over the other, an excuse to avoid his gaze. “But the truly interesting part is when the magician begins sleeping with the Marquise too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Count lets out a small chuckle as his eyes slide shut again. “Tasteful indeed. Don’t let me keep you from your book, nurse.” Then, almost as if he didn’t intend to admit it out loud. “Can’t believe I wish I was strong enough to </span>
  <em>
    <span>read</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The resignation in his voice is unbearable. No matter his haughtiness, she sympathizes. To go from a statesman infamous for his penchants for weekend-long hunts and out of control parties to being chained to his bed, trapped by the weakness of his own body - it must hit him as hard as the sickness itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thought occurs to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to read to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a child.” One eye shoots open as he wrinkles his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises her eyebrows. “As far as I’m aware, it’s not illegal to read to adults.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He huffs, shifting a bit beneath his covers.  “I guess that if you were to start reading your book aloud I might not hate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile escapes her as she turns back a few pages, looking for the beginning of the chapter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, so the current situation is: The Marquis has recently learned that his mistress, the magician, is having an affair with someone else in his court and goes to confront her....”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Given his condition, she tolerates a certain amount of grumpiness. Fighting a battle against your own deterioration can turn even the most mild-mannered people volatile, animal instincts looking for a target, lashing out against those closest to them. And the Count, hardly a mellow soul to begin with, is no exception. But there are other times too, when the man behind the mask finds the strength to emerge. Quickly, his good days begin brightening her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, we’re four men down, right?” He is animated now, making broad gestures with his hand. With the way he is building it up, it appears to be his favourite part of the story. She finds it curious that from what she has seen, many of his favourite tales are from before he came to Vesuvia, when he had just been a young mercenary traveling the lands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only three of us left and one of my companions is an archer - total garbage with a sword. You can’t even count him. So basically it’s just my friend Alrik and me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, humming. Ilya had been at the battle in question too and he had told her a drastically different version of events, but she’s not going to point that out. And with Ilya’s flair for dramatics matching the Count’s, who’s to say either of their versions are close to the truth?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continues, unaware of her musing. “Alrik is already injured, so as usual, it’s up to me to somehow get us out of this. But of course, I have a plan.” He grins, delighted as he lets the moment sit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She decides to indulge him. “So what was the plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahah.” The wiggles one finger as if he hadn’t been waiting for her to ask. “No interrupting. So, I know the other Commander. I mean, we aren’t bosom friends, but we have met once before, working for the same guy. And he’s really old fashioned. Honor-bound and stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She resists the urge to comment that many people would consider honor-bounds to be a very contemporary virtue as well. Not so much because she doesn’t want to disagree, but mostly because she doesn’t want to interrupt him as he is really getting into the story.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway- I challenge him to a duel. And really, it’s our lucky day. We’re outnumbered almost by ten fighters, not even I could have turned it around in normal combat. And he knows it. But since he considers himself such a noble knight, he can’t refuse.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small pause as he waits for her to react to his genius.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crafty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I know.” He nods quite seriously, mistaking her amusement at his antics for admiration. It is somewhat endearing. “And he’s overly confident. At that point I had already lost my arm, you see, and my replacement was a few years into the future. So he laughs and his men join. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This cripple? I don’t even need to try.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tone he mimics is grating, vitriol dripping. Somehow, she feels that this is a part he is not choosing to overact. “I hope you put him in his place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A winning smile passes his features like the sun emerging from the clouds on a rainy day. “Before he even finishes laughing. He’s so busy feeling confident, he doesn’t even notice me sweeping his feet from behind. By the time he rolls around, I already have the sword to his throat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes are glazed over as he savors the memory. For his age, he looks remarkably young, but for a moment she feels like she is watching an old warrior remembering his glory days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what then?” She leans forward, entranced. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grinning, he mirrors her. His voice drops, almost conspiratory, like he is passing her a secret only she is allowed to know. “Then I say: </span>
  <em>
    <span>If you don’t get out of here this instant, this cripple will make you a corpse.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning back, he observes her, obviously proud. She blinks, suddenly aware of how close they have become in her fascination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, he starts screeching about how I cheated, how the duel didn’t begin yet, blah blah.” The shake of a head. “But he already agreed, didn’t he? It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>battle</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not a children’s brawl. You pay attention or you die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oddly, she finds that she agrees. “Did they accept it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “They had no choice. Even if that pompous jerk had suddenly decided that honor wasn’t so important after all, I’d have taken off his head before his men could get to me. And what does he care after? So they left, tails between their legs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, he settles back even further, satisfied. Slowly, she blinks, leaning back as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was...quite the tale.” She hates herself for the note of admiration in her voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Count smiles at her, blood-shot eyes half-lidden. “I’m tired now. But after I rest,  I can tell you another one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, let me help you lie down.” Then, almost like she doesn’t want to admit it to herself. “I would like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, his best days are quickly becoming her own. Not for the stories of his exploits or his bravado. But for the light she sees in him in those moments, the fighter that he is at the core of his being. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>He is uncharacteristically quiet when she enters. It’s not uncommon for him to be asleep when she arrives and so she is used to sliding into the room in silence, but that is not the case today. He is lying on his back still, but aside from a short glance, he barely pays her any mind, his eyes trained to the far back of the room. She follows his gaze, realizing that he is looking at the portrait on the back wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite all its’ grandeur, she has almost forgotten it exists. Silently, she takes her place to his side, the mattress sinking slightly beneath her weight. One morning she had entered the room to find her usual chair gone and him suddenly moved to one side of his bed, throwing her a pointed look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now, there is none of his humor left. Envy and longing stretch on his haggard face as his gaze roams the canvas. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I used to be beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence sits even heavier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me?” She’s both scared of turning, of seeing the anguish in his voice reflected on his face and of what he might think if she doesn’t. Slowly, agonizingly so, she lifts her head towards him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That-” He points at the portrait, a snarl curling around his mouth, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> is supposed to be me. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” A disgusted sound as he looks down his emaciated body. The admission seems to pain him, his hand clenched in a fist as he lowers it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chews on her bottom lip. It is not the first time she hears something like this, but bedside manner has never been her strong suit. The plague takes most people too fast for them to have much time to take notice of their own degeneration. She wonders if maybe that is more a blessing than a curse. “I am sorry. It must be very difficult.”<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely seems to hear her, still immersed in the painting. Suddenly, his gaze snaps to her, red eyes unreadable. “Do I disgust you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha- of course not.” She frowns, shocked. Did something in her manner suggest this? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure? Because I should. This-” He gestures to himself with so much loathing it makes her heart clench. “Is the body of a corpse. The face,” he glances to the side, unable to continue while looking at her, “of a degenerate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heavy breath is the only audible sound in the room. Red blotches rise beneath his pallid skin, his white gold hair swept back, sticking to his head mattered with seat. As if in trance, she puts her hand on his thin arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, he lifts his eyes. Sickness-grey lips part in surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” A light squeeze as she holds his gaze, shocked by the force in her own voice. “This is the body of a human being and the face of a man.” She leans in only the fraction of an inch and his eyes snap shot. Her heart hammers against her ribs as she squeezes his arm again. “You are ill and you are in my care. You do not and can not disgust me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes in a shuddering breath and she is aware of her hand still on him, of the complete inapporpriatness of what she is doing. And still, she does not let go. He is her patient, yes, but first, he is a human being. And he is suffering in a way that  no amount of science or healing magic will fix. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You say that as my nurse-” The sudden intensity of his gaze burns into her and for a moment she remembers the man she had seen at the Masquerade, the one who had commanded an entire city with his mere presence. Her breath hitches as he leans forward “-but what do you say as a woman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blinks, slowly, sure she has misheard him. He only continues piercing her with his blood-red gaze. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again, throat dry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As a woman….” She swallows, her hand on his arm burning. Helpless, she searches his face, but all she sees is the stone-hard edge of his clenched jaw, the naked longing in his eyes. “...beauty is not a matter of looks, but of character.”<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you think my appearance is revolting.” His face crumples and her heart makes a painful lurch. As involuntarily as her hand had landed on his arm, it now slides to his hand, frantic to catch him before he pulls away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before coming to his side she never would have felt as she does. But one cannot watch a man waste away and be unmoved by his resilience, his sheer will to cling to a life seeping from him with every move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” It’s barely a whisper, “I think your spirit is very strong.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“Where were you yesterday?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question is asked before she has even properly entered the room. He is sitting at his window today, apparently feeling well enough to have moved from his bed for a moment. They never last long, but she understands how liberating it must feel to leave the confines of what he must understand as his prison, if only for a few minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doctor Devorak asked for my help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What for? And stop your</span>
  <em>
    <span> Doctor Devoraks,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I know you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>each other.” A wry grin tugs at his mouth, but there’s a question in his eyes he doesn’t ask, a hint of spite colouring his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was a- </span>
  <em>
    <span>situation </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the labs. He required my assistance.” It’s the only thing he requires her for anymore. Of course, after her work had been done, he had pulled her to his chambers, had worshiped her body with her back against the door. She only wishes it had been enough to make her forget the aching emptiness in her chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So that’s what they are calling it these days. Does Asra know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But still, the heat spreads across her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m talking about you fucking Jules.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stops, turns slowly, unable to believe she heard him correctly. He grins at her, but there is no humour in it. “The servants hear a lot, you know? If you’re trying to hide it, you should consider finding quieter spots.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets up, indignant. There it is. Of course she has seen glimpses of it before. Dark moments will drive anyone to cruelty and lately, with no cure in sight after months of research, those have become more frequent. But that doesn’t mean that she will allow herself to be the target of his anger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, where are you going?” Her hand curls around the door handle. It would be so easy to slip out, to get one of the servants to watch him in her place while she feigns a spell of dizziness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a sudden bout of nausea and need to retire to my quarters.” Her voice is hollow in her ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” The windowsill creaks as he moves and she turns around, relieved to see him sitting still. In his many months in bed, his muscles have deteriorated to the point where it is almost </span>
  <span>impossible for him to move from one place to the other without help. When he notices she is looking at him, he lifts his arms as if in defeat. "I’m not judging.” He sounds not apologetic, but somewhat regretful, scared of losing his one source of entertainment. She can’t help the ice in her gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In my opinion, he deserves it for leaving you here alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She despises him. Despises him for her own need to reveal even more of herself, to indulge him in his probing. “It. Is. Not. Like. That.” Each word leaves her like a snake’s hiss. “I am not </span>
  <em>
    <span>cheating </span>
  </em>
  <span>on Asra. Him and me...we are...” That’s it, they just </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Wherever and with whomever, her and him are one. At least they once had been. But she doesn’t know how to explain this to someone else, especially not </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miraculously, he appears to understand, giving her a nod. But then again, him and the Countess have their own arrangement. Maybe he assumes Asra and her similar. Maybe he doesn’t care at all and is only relieved she isn’t still trying to rush out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So who’s Jules to you?” There is no malice in his voice, only curiosity and a hint of something she doesn’t dare name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only she knew how to answer this. Once, she would have called him her confidant, her friend, her lover. The plague has made him an acquaintance she occasionally sleeps with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only she knew how to answer this. Once, she would have called him her confidant, her friend, her lover. The plague has made him an acquaintance she occasionally sleeps with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She averts her eyes as she finally goes back to her seat on the bed, anger dissipating. No matter how much he pokes and probes her, she can’t leave him. It’s not just her duty that keeps her here, not even pride. The thought of leaving him in someone else’s care makes her sick. He is her responsibility. He is </span>
  <em>
    <span>hers</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What is it about him, that he manages to find her most vulnerable spots, seemingly by accident? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, Mykhaila-” It’s the first time he has used her name. The shock that runs through her makes her only even more indignant. “I wasn’t trying to offend you, I just-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-you often ask people who they are fucking without intending to offend them?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He at least has the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. His hand is raised as if to wring them but remembering that his metal arm isn’t attached, he lets it fall to his lap again. Only now she realizes that he should lie down again. Silently, she comes to his side and he </span>
  <span>glances up at her, apologetic and oh so vulnerable. Despite herself, she softens, her jaw unclenching as she carefully steadies him, his arm around her shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I was rude.” She almost misses it, too busy helping him back into his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As long as you aren’t again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I won’t.” His touch on the back of her hand is soft, almost a whisper. “It’s just, you could do better than </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But still she doesn’t pull away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t I?” His gaze roams across her face, excited, almost wild. She has never seen him this animated before, not even when he is telling his tales. “The servants tell even more. They say you sleep in the palace now, at the end of the hall. And dear Jules is staying in the palace too, isn’t he? But they say that since you moved here, you did not have a visitor, not even once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why do they tell you all this?” She rises, pulling away from his touch and he leans in her direction, grabbing her arm again. The yearning in the movement gives her pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I asked.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls her arm from him, seething.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Why do you insist on tormenting me? What have-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not trying to torment you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“- I done to you for you to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-I’m just curious and you would never tell me-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-it’s none of your business-”. Somewhere behind her, there is a sound but she doesn’t pay it attention, too caught up in the moment, in the idiotic rightenousness blazing in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>WHY</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t it be my business? Why can’t you share-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a loud sound as the door is hastily thrown shut. Momentarily she is thrown off guard, shocked into silence, but he pays it no mind. He sighs, suddenly appearing defeated. Her anger dissipates like smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, I- do you really need me to admit it out loud?” He is almost pleading with her but she only stares at him from her position at the end of the bed, uncomprehending. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you didn’t come in yesterday, I got worried. So I asked around. They told me you were with Jules, so of course I got curious. And then- I couldn’t stop asking.” Lucio looks like a youth now, bewildered and unsure, as if he had never expected to have to explain his reasoning. He searches her face, anxious, frantic. Slowly, she lowers herself to the edge of the bed, enough distance that he can’t reach out to touch, but close enough to signal some kind of truce.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He averts his gaze. “I can’t leave this room, I can’t talk to anyone who doesn’t come here. And the only people who visit are the ones who want something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so shy in the admission, as if thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoping </span>
  </em>
  <span>that she hasn’t noticed by now that the only guests he has are the ghastly courtiers. In all her weeks by his side, there has not been a single person one could call a confidant. A friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grows quiet now, so quiet that she has to lean forward to catch the rest of what he is saying. “Not even Noddy will come. And you-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to. She hears his words despite his silence. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You are all I have.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>It is the middle of the night when she is woken rather rudely by the abrupt opening of the door.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Mistress, I apologize, the Count-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, she is wide awake. Hastily, she throws on the robe the servant brings her before she grabs her supplies, rushing out of the door. Her room is at the end of the Count’s wing, a former utility room repurposed into temporary chambers. The Countess had wanted to give her better quarters, but she had insisted on this one, citing the location. It seems she made the right decision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucio looks even worse than on the very first day she had come to him. He is sweating, coughing, bony hand clinging to his sheets. When she comes in, he lets out a sound that strikes her to the core. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mykhaila-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gropes for her hand, uncoordinated, scared and she grabs it in both of hers, squeezes it before running them from his face down his shoulders to the rest of his body, pouring all of her power into him, everything, anything to take his pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here- Lucio, everything will be alright, I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heaves out a hitched breath and it is then that she realizes he is crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes all of her resolve not to let out a sob as well. This is what she is here for. To keep him together, when she herself is falling apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can. Please, you can. You have to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the sake of the city. For himself. And, in her disgusting selfishness, for her.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>“Is it because I’m not him?” The question leaves him in a hiss, as if he had never intended for it to get past his grit teeth. Her hand finds his feverish forehead, all the affection she cannot voice concentrated in her tender touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wonders what </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>he is referring to. Asra, Ilya, or the man in the portrait across the bed? She would laugh at how ridiculous the notion is, were he not breaking himself open for her, tragically beautiful in his vulnerability. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Never that.” A soft kiss to his brow. It is the first one they have ever shared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucio leans into the touch, yearning, already mourning the loss. “What are you scared of?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even lost in his pain, he is still able to put his finger to her deepest hurts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t lose you.” In the dead silence of the room her whisper is as loud as a bell. It’s the closest to an admission she has ever come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has done it. Has made her admit out loud what she barely could to herself, in the privacy of her thoughts. That the thought of the plague taking yet another thing from her is unbearable. That in their months together, he has become her world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ella-” He grasps her hand, still on his forehead and pulls it to his mouth, his long fingers cold against her skin, the touch of his lips to her knuckles leaving unable to look at him directly. “Beloved, you won’t lose me. I promise”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lucio, you’re…” She can’t bring herself to finish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sick, I know. But I have a plan:” He licks his lips, hesitating before continuing. “It is almost ready. Only a little while more, until the Masquerade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does the Masquerade..:”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, just trust me. I just need to hold out those few months. And then, everything will be alright.” He seems manic now, grasping at her with all his feeble strength and she lets herself be pulled towards him, all her useless fight leaving her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just- will you stay with me? Until then?” His hot breath against her ear makes her close her eyes, run her hands down his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” He pulls her as tight as his strength allows and in response, her heart beats so wildly against her ribcage so wildly that she imagines he must feel the echo in his own chest. “I’ll stay with you. For as long-” </span>
  <em>
    <span>as long as you live.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“And will you trust me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bites down the sob threatening to leave her at his wild, unfounded, </span>
  <em>
    <span>desperate </span>
  </em>
  <span>hope.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A weak kiss to the top of her head. “Until the Masquerade. And then everything will be as it should be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She only nods, falls into him trying to forget where this path will lead them. Wraps herself around his feeble, resilient, beautiful body as if she can shield him from what is inevitable. </span>
</p>
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